


Fate Uncertain

by galactic_roses



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Character Death, Dreams, Drowning, Future Vision, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Nightmares, Oracle!au, Prophetic Dreams, Prophetic Visions, seer Mogens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galactic_roses/pseuds/galactic_roses
Summary: Mogens sees pieces of what might be, and what might be scares him deeply.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Fate Uncertain

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick drabble piece about future dreams/Oracle!Mogens AU I discussed with some discord folks. 
> 
> TW for drowning

Mogens wasn’t sure why he felt uneasy, but he did. Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was a scene he’d witnessed many times. The sunlight was weak, as it always was. The air was cold, the wind even more so, but Mogens was warm enough. He had his thick coat to block out the wind and a sweater to insulate his middle, as well as his own large form’s natural ability to drive off the cold. The floor of his trusty boat felt good and solid under his boots, despite the gentle swaying caused by the movement of the waves below. The itch between his shoulder blades was in its usual spot. So what was making him feel so off?

He blinked, and something flashed behind his eyelids. His sight wavered. Imposed over the scene in front of him, he saw something else, something that glimmered slightly in the faint sunlight. Blinking again, he looked down at his feet, then toward the end of the dock. Jesper was there, looking chagrined as always, carrying a large bag of mail. 

“Isn’t this supposed to be your job?” he called, sounding especially irritable. “Why do I have to lug this down here? It’s heavy!”

About to reply in his best sarcastic manner, Mogens paused. Something felt wrong. Was it the light? The sudden lack of sound? 

Distracted, he didn’t notice Jesper’s toe catch on one of the uneven boards of the dock. It was Jesper’s cry of surprise that caught his attention again, and he turned in time to see the postman hit the waves. 

Suddenly, he felt numb. Jesper flailed in the water, his movements clearly panicked but sluggish from the chilling effect of the icy ocean. Mogens stood frozen, staring at the spot where Jesper beginning to succumb to the cold. He couldn’t move. 

“Mogens! What are you doing, staring off into space? Isn’t this supposed to be your job?”

Turning slowly, Mogens looked up the hill and saw Jesper, carrying a big bag of mail. The unease in Mogens’ gut increased.

“Why do I have to lug this down here? It’s heavy!” 

Mogens blinked and watched Jesper approach, feeling uncomfortable. He hadn’t been so thoroughly tricked by a vision in a long time. Something still wasn’t right. 

“Seriously Mogens, I don’t even think you have a bad back, you just use that as an excuse to be lazy!”

The bag of mail thumped at the ferryman’s feet, making the dock bounce. 

“There you go,” Jesper said, then he wavered, and vanished. 

Mogens sighed and rubbed his eyes. This was so much worse than usual.

“Hey Mogens! Why are you just standing there? Isn’t this supposed to be your job?” 

Jesper’s voice rang down the hill. Mogens ignored him. 

“Don’t ignore me! I shouldn’t have to lug this around, it’s heavy!”

Mogens gave in and turned to watch the postman’s progress down the hill, keeping his face carefully bored. It wouldn’t help him much if a villager or two witnessed him acting like a lunatic, talking to postmen who weren’t really there, though it might add validity to their general avoidance of him. He kept his gaze slightly unfocused, thoughts distant, as Jesper approached the docks. 

“You know, you’re just downright disrespectful sometimes,” Jesper began, strolling toward the ferryman. “Though I suppose I should expect nothing less from th—”

Focused on his rant, Jesper didn’t notice the uneven board until the toe of his boot caught it, and he teetered forward. With a cry, he flung up his arms, dislodging the sack of mail, and tumbled into the water. Mogens watched from his boat, frozen in place as Jesper began to flail once more, his skinny arms beating the water to a froth. The cold started to take effect and his movements slowed.

“Mogens— help me!” Jesper cried, only for water to flood his mouth and nose with a gurgle. The boards on which Mogens stood no longer felt solid. He swayed, then moved forward a few steps to stare down into the icy surf. Jesper’s wide, panicked eyes locked onto his, and stayed fixed on his face even as the postman sank beneath the waves.

Mogens waited for the vision to vanish, for Jesper’s voice to once again float down from the top of the hill, but the shadow in the water where Jesper had been was still there. Tiny bubbles rose to the surface. Looking over, Mogens realized that the sack of mail was still sitting on the dock, half open, with letters spilling onto the rough planks. As if in a dream, he walked over and bent to pick up one of the cream-colored envelopes. The paper felt all too real in his hands, the tiny fibers of the material catching on his sea-roughened fingers. Ice bit into his ribs. He turned and stared at the spot where the postman had vanished beneath the water. The letter dropped from his suddenly numb fingertips. 

_No,_ he thought wildly, _it can’t be._ Two strides took him to the edge of the dock, and he dropped to his knees, trying to see beyond the murky surface. 

“Postman,” he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry as paper. It couldn’t be real, it had to be just another vision, there was no way… But the longer he stared into the depths, the more it began to sink in. This wasn’t a vision. His horrified reflection stared back at him from the water’s surface, his own face a mocking reminder of Jesper’s final, terrified expression.

Splinters dug into his hands as he clutched the boards, still disbelieving of what he’d seen, what he’d let happen. He couldn’t shake the encroaching feeling of despair. Static filled his ears. The air in his lungs seemed to crystallize. It dragged sharp edges along his windpipe as he fought to breathe, desperate to provide his shocked brain with oxygen. He scrambled for his thoughts, his rationale, anything he could cling to, but nothing appeared for him, no lifeline descended for him to grasp.

Fleeting images passed before his eyes. An empty post office. A new postman. Months of starless skies, sunless days. Countless tankards of ale.

Mogens woke with a jolt that rivaled the crack of a bullwhip, nearly falling out of the chair he’d commandeered on the Sverresen’s porch. He gasped for a moment, looking around, then shoved himself up and set off toward the post office in an undignified jog. His heart was beating a tattoo against his ribs to match the one that had been inked into the skin above it, pounding so hard he could almost feel it pulsing in his throat. It had been a dream, but that wasn’t always a reassurance for him. He needed to check, needed to know…

The post office door shot off its hinges when Mogens slammed into it, and it landed on the floor with a clatter, causing the postman behind the desk to jump to his feet.

“Mogens? What on earth—”

Relief was like a splash of warm water to the face, but Mogens still couldn’t relax. He made straight for Jesper and grabbed him by the shoulders. For a blink of time, Mogens saw wide, panicked eyes and blue lips imprinted on Jesper’s face, then the vision faded.

“You gotta stay away from water,” Mogens said urgently, his voice still raspy with sleep.

“How am I supposed to stay away from water?” Jesper asked. “Humans have to drink water to survive—”

“I’m being serious, Jesper!” Mogens yelled, uncharacteristically using the postman’s name. Jesper gaped at him. 

“Why, all of a sudden—” Jesper began, but Mogens cut him off and shook him.

“Just stay away from the harbor,” he rasped, “Promise me you’ll stay away—”

“Ouch, Mogens, that hurts! Alright, alright, I promise!” 

Mogens looked up into Jesper’s face, seeing once again the image of a drowned man overlaid on his features, then he released the postman’s shoulders and stepped back. What was he doing? He could only ever do so much to change the course of what he saw, and sometimes the events would come to pass no matter what he tried. He cast one last, haunted look at the postman, then retreated out of the post office. His fingers felt like chunks of ice, so he shoved his hands into his coat pockets in a vain attempt to warm them. Piecing together his scattered thoughts, he decided to go down to the dock. He would do the only thing he could. He would fix the uneven board that had tripped Jesper in his dream, then he would go to the bar. After the dream he’d had, he needed a stiff drink, or five. Alcohol seemed to be the only thing that relieved him of his foresight, and at the moment he would do anything, _anything,_ for a few hours of the present and nothing else.


End file.
